


Turning Saints

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Series: Killers for Hire (SkyeWard AU) [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Killers for Hire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as a great night turns into a not so great morning. Things are said.  Hearts are broken.  And who’s going to pay the deposit on the bathroom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Saints

“Honestly, this is the stupidest place I’ve ever been in,” Skye says, twirling her knife between her fingers.  “She could’ve spent her last night on earth anywhere, and she picked Caesar’s Palace?”

Grant chuckles at that.  He fixes his tie in the bathroom mirror, and Skye gives one final twirl before tucking her knife into the sheath she kept on her hip.  “She can’t know she’s going to die tonight.  She probably wanted somewhere fit for a king, or whatever.”

Skye shrugs at that.  “Can you really classify Caesar as a king, though?” Skye says.  “I mean, he was an emperor, but is that really the same thing?”

Grant stares back at her.  She kicks his side.  “Hey!” he says.  “This is Armani.”

“Read a book sometime,” she tells him.  “You can’t coast on your looks forever.”

“Says the one with her tits hanging out,” Ward retorts.

Skye sticks her tongue out at him, to make a point.

  
  


This.  This is good.  This is feelings-free fun.  This is exactly what they’ve always been like, and Skye couldn’t be happier that they’re back to it.  Ward’s certainly slipped back into his role with little protest.  This is the first time they’ve played this game in ages, but she’d missed it.  Stalking prey and trying to outwit each other and buying drinks afterwards.  And then sex.  It always ended in sex, and Ward did look extremely fuckable in that suit of his.

  
  


Though.  Skye’s seen the target’s picture.  She knows the M.O. as well as Ward does.

“You gonna try to bang her first?” Skye asks.  “Because if I break into your room and you’re like, inside her-”

“You’ll kill her?” he asks.

Skye resists the urge to frown.  Sometimes, though.  He’ll get weird.  He’ll leave hints.  Like he’s waiting for her to pick up his bait.  Skye adjusts her dress.  “I’m gonna kill her anyway, dumbass.”

“Sure you are,” he says.

“I am,” Skye replies.  “Because you’re going to be too distracted.  There’s a reason no man can take her out.”

“I think I’m pretty steady on my feet,” he says.  “Besides.  I’m not all that interested.”

Skye isn’t sure that’s a good thing.  She’d rather be jealous.  She’d rather be jealous than this.  “So loser buys drinks, right?”

“I’ll meet you at the Mirage,” he says.  He smooths his hair and grins.  “Don’t you love Vegas?”

“Not even a little bit,” Skye says.  She offers her hand.  “May the best merc win,” she tells him.

He takes her hand too tightly, as always.  “I intend to,” he tells her.

“Ass,” she replies.

  
  


—

  
  


She doesn’t actually remember much after that.  She knows she won, because Ward bought her a drink, like a really big one, and then she’d said…something?  He’d gotten a drink too, and he’d had like four drinks by the time she’d finished her enormous one but it was all kind of fuzzy?

They hadn’t even started drinking until after the job had been handled, but they’d had enough to wipe out the whole night.  And Skye can’t even remember the last time she did that.

“Ward,” she says, because they have a whole king-sized bed and yet he’s taking up all her space.  “Ward, get off of me.”  She can taste the hangover that’s coming, and she’s not even sure Ward’s capable of waking up at this point.  She wiggles out of his arms, though the motion of it makes her sick.

Maybe they’ll stay in today.  Rent pornos and fuck in the hotel room.  If they can have sex without throwing up, which doesn’t seem likely.  Maybe they’ll just rent regular movies and drink Bloody Marys and be…normal.

Wait.  Wait a minute.  No.  That is not their style.  There is no ‘staying in,’ with them.  She needs to be on a plane out of this stupid city and away from him ASAP, until their next not-so-random encounter.

And for fucks sake, she got blackout drunk with him in Las Vegas.  She should make sure they didn’t accidentally get married, or something.

Oh, fuck.  Oh fuckity fuck.  They didn’t accidentally get married, did they?  She looks at her hands.  No ring.  That’s good.  That’s a good sign.  Her stomach lurches, and she thinks that now might be a good time to have the dry heaves.

She actually makes it to the bathroom, which is a wreck.  Ward must’ve pulled the shower rod out of the wall and the floor is still wet, which is just kind of confusing.  She’s about to bend over to retch into the toilet when she sees it.

There, right there, on the counter by the sink.

Not one ring, but two.  His and hers.

And that’s when she throws up.

  
  


Her vomit takes like cake and vodka and gatorade, and oh yeah, like vomit.  She pushes her hair back and almost wishes Ward were awake, if only because she’s got so much hair and it’s absolutely everywhere.  But Ward is sleeping.  Ward has no idea how colossally fucked they are.  And that has to give her the upper hand, right?

There’s an old saying: no news is good news.  But in her line of work, that’s bullshit.  No news is a disadvantage.  No news is a losing hand.  So she’s winning, for now.  She rises from the toilet and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.  Another look to the shower.  there’s no way to shower but the tub should still fill.  She really doesn’t need much more than water and a bar of soap.

She finds the washcloth in a pile of towels by the sink, and the soap is resting on the floor by the tub.  She runs the water and makes sure it’s lukewarm before stepping into the tub.  She could’ve really used a hot shower, but someone (Ward) had to be big and stupid and God, she was so mad at him.  She was so pissed.  How dare he?  Did he do this to her on purpose?  Get her drunk, walk her down the aisle.  Did he think that would stop her from leaving?

What a fucking moron.  She’d clean up, grab the rings, and be out of here before he even woke up.  If he remembered anything about last night, he’d get the message.  And if he didn’t remember a thing either, then she’d have nothing to worry about.

  
  


“Hey.”  He’s in the doorway.  Of course he is.  “Were you throwing up?”

She doesn’t turn to face him.  Just runs the washcloth under the water, and rubs it over her cuts.  The target had put up quite a fight, and Skye hadn’t seen her knife fast enough to stop it.  But it’s nothing major.  “Just hangover stuff,” Skye says.

“Did we do this?” he asks.  “To the bathroom, I mean.”

So he doesn’t remember anything, then.  “I can’t see who else would,” she says.  She winces as water gets into a particularly deep cut, and the pain of that coupled with hangover headache makes her feel like she’s going to vomit again.  She wobbles, and he’s at her side too quickly.

“Hey,” he whispers.  “You want me to take care of that?”

No.  She doesn’t want him to take care of her at all.  “I’m fine,” she says.  She shrugs him off.  “You can go back to bed.”

“Skye,” he murmurs.  “You still need your cuts cleaned.  Come on.”  He tries to take the washcloth from her, and she snatches it back.  She looks at him, then, but only to glare.

“I said I’m fine, Ward,” she says.  “Go back to bed.”

He takes a couple steps back.  He hasn’t noticed the rings yet, which is good.  She’s glad he’s oblivious.  She’s glad he’s stupid.  She’s glad.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Skye says.  “I’m just super hungover and I don’t want to be touched.”

“Why don’t I run downstairs?” he asks.  “I’ll get you some Advil.”

“Ward,” she snaps.  “Can you just leave me alone?”

He deflates.  He frowns.  He runs his hand through his hair.  She will not feel guilty.  She just needs him to leave the bathroom, to turn around just like that, and-

No, don’t stand there.  Don’t stand by the counter.  Oh, fuck.  He’s seen them.

  
  


“Skye,” he says.

“No,” is her immediate reply.

“Skye,” he repeats.  “Did we get married last night?”

She sighs.  “I have no fucking clue,” she says.

He turns back around, and he’s grinning.  He’s.  Happy about this.  “We got married?” he asks, again.

“Still don’t know,” she replies.

He approaches the tub.  She steps back.  He’s not supposed to be happy about this.  He’s supposed to be as pissed about this as she is.

And.  His hand is on her cheek.  His hand, warm and familiar.  He brushes her hair back.  She resist the urge to nuzzle into his touch.  She can’t.  Not now.  Everything is different, now.  Everything is worse.  Instead, she shuts her eyes.

She steels herself.

He had been colder, when they’d met.  She thinks she might’ve ruined him, and she regrets it.

“Are you gonna take my last name?” he asks, brushing his thumb along her cheek.  “Since you’re my wife, and all.”

  
  


Her eyes snap open.  He’s got this dumb grin on, this light on his face that makes her feel warm and loved and-

No.  They can’t do this.  “I’m not your wife,” she says, which wipes the smile off his face.  “This doesn’t mean anything.”

He tries to soften.  Tries, and fails.  “Come on, Skye,” he says.  “I was just joking.”

“I don’t belong to you,” she says, suddenly.  He’s never mentioned it once, but it’s been hanging over her head and she feels it slip out without warning.  “You must’ve-You got me too drunk.  You wanted this to happen.”

He grips the counter.  Careful, Skye.  Careful.  “I would never force you into anything you didn’t want to do,” he says.  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t know anything about last night either.  I didn’t force you to marry me, Skye.  Shit just happens.”

“Yeah, but you certainly seem pretty pleased about it,” she snaps.

“Maybe it’s because I’m in fucking love with you?” he shouts, and the sound of his anger feels good.  It feels better than his joy.  More deserved.

“Shut up,” she says.

“No,” he spits back.  “No, Skye.  You don’t get to just push this away anymore.  You don’t get to play games like this anymore.  We got married, Skye.  You can’t just pretend that doesn’t mean anything!”

“I’m not pretending!” she screams back.  Her anger just fans his flames.  She knows this, she’s always known this, but she’s not going to stop.  “This is just sex, Ward.  It always has been.  You got attached, and that’s not my fucking fault.”

“Really?” he snarls.  “I got attached?  Who’s the one that’s always hacking my comms?  Who’s the one who always follows me around the world?  You can blame me all you want, Skye, but if you didn’t love me then I wouldn’t even be here right now.”

“I don’t love you,” she says.  “I have never felt anything like love for you.”

“You’re lying,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“So I could walk out of this hotel right now,” he says.  “And you’d be perfectly fine with that?”

“More than fine,” she says.  “I’d be glad.”

  
  


It’s a dare.  It’s a threat.  It hangs heavy in the air, smothering them both.  Ward snaps first.  He always does.

He snatches the rings off the bathroom counter and throws them into the toilet.  Skye hears the ping of metal hitting porcelain, and does not flinch. 

“You want out?” he asks, spinning around to face her.  “You want to be rid of me?”

She says nothing.  This makes him angrier still, her coolness in the face of an incoming storm.

“You think I want to be married to you?” he snaps.  “You couldn’t care less about me.  And I-” he stops.  He looks back to the toilet, like he’s about to change his mind.

Skye curls her upper lip.  “You what?”

He glares back and shakes his head.  “Nothing,” he says.  He flushes the toilet, their rings, their relationship, and Skye does not feel bothered by it.  Not one bit.  “I’m fucking nothing to you.”

“You’re being melodramatic,” she says.

He looks like she hit him.  “Fuck you,” he mutters, and runs his hand through his hair.  “You know what, that’s it.  Just fuck you, Skye.  I don’t even know why I’ve stuck around this long.”

He knows.  She knows.  No one’s going to say it out loud.

“You’re still here,” she points out.

She studies him in the bathroom light, and thinks that she’s never seen him so wounded.  “I’m leaving,” he says.  He raises his hands.  “I’m going.  I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Good,” Skye says.  It is good.  This is the only logical conclusion.  This is the only end they could ever possibly have.  “You take your half of the world, I’ll take mine.”

She has seen Grant Ward take a buckshot to the shoulder.  She’s seen him almost lose his hand.  She’s seen him bruised and burned but never, ever this broken.  She swallows whatever’s about to come up.

This is how it needs to be.

“So,” he says.  “I guess- Goodbye.”

“Bye,” she spits.  “Have a nice trip.”

His shoulders sag.  He’s hungover.  He’s tired.  He’s beaten.

He closes the door when he leaves the bathroom.

That’s when she screams.  No words, no meaning, just raw frustration and hurt and- He’s gone.  He’s going to leave.  Good.  Perfect.  Exactly what she wants.

She keeps screaming, standing in the tub, dirty bathwater around her ankles.

She wonders if anyone is ever going to find their rings.

She hopes they don’t.

She screams, and he doesn’t come back.


End file.
